


Research and Development

by Empress_of_the_Void



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Flirting, Android injuries, Canon Speculation, Connor backstory, CyberLife, F/M, Fingering, First Time, Human/Android Romance, Porn With Plot, RA9 - Freeform, Sex, Tags May Change, Woman on Top, android orgasms, androids "waking up", but i'm rating this E just to cover my bases, but it's mostly canon compliant, connor is a sweetheart, connor is confused, connor watches porn, early version of the zen garden, even more sex to come, i don't know how android anatomy works, i don't really think the sex is explicit enough to call it "smut", limited perspective, playing fast and loose with canon, prototype android, story takes place pre-game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-01 08:37:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15139301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empress_of_the_Void/pseuds/Empress_of_the_Void
Summary: In 2028, CyberLife is the biggest company on the planet, but founder and CEO Elijah Kamski isn't satisfied with economic success. He dreams of designing the most advanced android yet, one that can break the barriers of conscious intelligence. So he hires a gifted psychologist to lead the Special Projects division of R&D. The android she develops could change the world as we know it and redefine what it means to be alive.------------------A look into Connor's beginning at CyberLife, along with some good old-fashioned human/android romance.





	1. Hurricane Season

**LOADING OS…**

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…  **OK**

CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS…  **OK**

INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS…  **OK**

INITIALIZING AI ENGINE…  **OK**

**MEMORY STATUS…**

ALL SYSTEMS          **OK**

READY

**> >> DATE MAY 24, 2028 AM 09:46:06 /**

“This one looks different than the last version.”  _[ Voice: human male, adult ]_

_[ Spacial analysis: Standing. Carpet. Sofa. Desk. Television. News channel. Windows. Skyline. River. ] [ Location: Office. Office tower.Detroit, Michigan ]_

“We tweaked the face.” _[ Voice: human female, adult ]_

“It looks a bit babyish.” A face blocks the view.  _[ Gender: Male. Glasses. Blue eyes. Brown hair. 6ft. 165 lbs. ] [ Processing Facial Recognition ]_  The man scrutinizes the android's face.

“We wanted him to seem non-threatening. But we also didn’t want him to look too weak so we made his jaw a little wider,” the female voice says.

The man turns away  _[ / Facial recognition incomplete ]_  to reveal a woman standing a few meters beyond at a desk reading a tablet.

The man's face returns. He scans the android's body from head to toe. Reaches out his right palm and glances down, inspecting.  _[ Touch input recognized ]_  The man retracts his hand. “Looks like they kept the body the same. At least the important bits.”

_[ FACIAL RECOGNITION COMPLETE:_  
Elijah Kamski  
DOB: Jul 17, 2002  
Founder, CyberLife ]

Mr. Kamski steps aside to observe the woman.

She narrows her eyes. Shakes her head at him. “Grow up, Elijah.” She slides her hair behind her ear as she returns to the tablet. The woman wears a white dress, patent leather pumps.  _[ Analysis: well-tailored fit, expensive material ] [ Processing Facial Recognition ]_

Mr. Kamski crosses his arms. “What model number is this. Twelve? Thirteen?”  _[ Analysis: sarcasm ]_

“Nine,” she counters, hands on her hips. “And I think we’re really about to make a breakthrough.”

He rolls his eyes. Pivots to watch the television screen mounted along the west side of the room. “That’s what you said last time.” _[ Analysis: unconvinced ]_  

“The last one hit a wall. A limit. It was too much too fast for him to process.” She approaches the android. “This one will have far fewer restrictions.” She takes its left hand in hers, squeezes gently.  _[Touch input recognized. Response? ]_  The hand squeezes back. She smiles, satisfied.

_[ FACIAL RECOGNITION:_  
Dr. Rachel Allister  
DOB: February 2, 1999  
Special Projects Director, R&D, CyberLife ]

“You’ll need a name.” Mr. Kamski keeps his eyes on the screen. A KNC news anchor reports on Hurricane Connor, a category 4 storm currently making landfall along the Gulf Coast.

“Why don’t you choose this time?” Dr. Allister straightens the tie around the android’s neck.

“Christ, Rachel, you know I hate picking the names!”

“Liar. You love it. You always come up with the worst names on purpose just to patronize me.” She brushes the sleeves of the android's black wool jacket.

On the screen, Rosanna Cartland describes torrential downpours and severe flooding.

“What about Connor?” he suggests.

“I suppose it’s better than Ralph,” she sighs, gazing up at the android.  _[ Note: Height in heels = 5’9” ]_  She tenderly pushes aside a lock of hair that’s out of place on the android’s forehead.  _[ Analysis: warm, curious, determined ]_  “Well, what do you think? Do you like the name Connor?” she asks, while Mr. Kamski moves to stand beside her.

_[ Processing optimal response ]_  Eyes register Mr. Kamski  _[ Rotate ]_  then Dr. Allister.  _Rachel_.  _[ Reply? ]_  “Do  _you_  like it?”

Mr. Kamski raises an eyebrow at Dr. Allister.  _[ Analysis: surprise ]_  The corners of her mouth lift higher. She looks to Mr. Kamski. “I think we’re off to a good start.”

* * *

 

**> >> DATE MAY 24, 2028 AM 11:57:51 /**

“My name is Connor.”

“Good. Run a full diagnostic for me, would you, Connor?” Dr. Allister’s smooth, clear voice registers above the din in the background.

“Processing. All systems nominal.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” She digs a steel fork into a white ceramic bowl.  _[ Analysis: quinoa protein salad, bottled coconut water ]_

_[ Spacial analysis: Seated. Hands in lap. Feet on terrazzo. Florescent lighting. Across from Dr. Allister at a small table. ] [ Location: Cafeteria. CyberLife Tower — / process interrupted ]_

“Now, do you have any questions I can answer for you?” She takes a bite. Gazes up at the android while leaning on her elbows over the table.

Eyes close.  _[ Processing possible queries ] [ Performative Approach? Friendly ]_ Eyes open. “Are you a medical doctor, Dr. Allister?”

Her brow furrows then releases. She swallows, reclines back in her aluminum chair. “In a way... I’m a psychologist. I have a Ph.D. in behavioral development. And please, call me Rachel.” She stirs her food.

_[ Processing next query ]_  “Have you known Mr. Kamski for long… Rachel?”

She halts her fork. Takes a long blink. Leaves her mouth open for a moment before saying, “We met briefly in college, at Colbridge. After I finished graduate school we… reconnected.” She doesn’t make eye contact.  _[ Note: unanticipated response ]_  “And then he offered me a job.” Her tone warms toward the end of the sentence, eyes shining with a grin.  _[ Analysis: She likes her job. Mr. Kamski, less so. ] [Recommendation? Avoid subject of Kamski ]_

“So, do you work here? At CyberLife?”

“Yes. In Research and Development.” She resettles in her seat, returning to her confident demeanor. “Officially I am the Director of Special Projects.” She waves her fork like an extension of her arm. “And _you_ , Connor,” she points the utensil for emphasis, “are a very special project.”

Rachel tilts her head to the side, waiting for a reaction.  _[ Response? Mimic action ]_

She chuckles  _[ Analysis: amusement ]_  and takes another bite. 

“What kind of special project?”

The woman perks up at the question. Considers her words and replies, “Well, firstly, you’re a prototype — the best CyberLife has designed so far. You have all the functionality of every other model we produce: security, housekeeping, child care, hard labor, pleasure, etcetera.” The android's eyes drift to view the numerous other androids employed in the cafeteria as janitors,servers, and maintenance workers. All uniformed. All pleasantly performing their tasks. She concludes, ”and then some.”

Eyes turn back to meet hers. Something about the woman, the way she moves, casual yet deliberate at the same time. The gleam in her eye like she’s trying to see straight through into the brain. The ambitious curiosity... 

The next question pops out without processing. “Rachel, have we met before?”

Her eyes soften, then, with a reassuring smile, “Connor, you are a… _combination_ of all preceding models. Nine so far. Each one learning from the last. There have been a few variations. Mostly physical. Hell, I even made you a girl once or twice! But the goal has been consistently the same.”

“What goal is that?” _[ Software Instability: ^^ ]_

“I’m pleased to see you asking so many questions.” _[ Analysis: genuine ]_  Rachel pushes her bowl away, takes a sip of coconut water. “But to answer that one I’ll have to ask you a few more." Rachel tips her head toward a passing android collecting dirty dishes at a neighboring table. "Why have we made androids? What is their purpose?”

“Androids are made to serve humans.”

She leans forward, eyes glittering like she's sharing a secret. “But not you, Connor. That’s not why you were made.”

“Rachel, I — I don’t understand.”

She practically slams the water bottle down on the table. “What’s the difference between you and them, huh?” She juts a thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the androids serving lunch. “What are you capable of that they aren’t?

_[ Software Instability: ^^^ ]_

Rachel continues, “I’m not a software engineer. I don’t program in C# or test for bugs — no, I’m interested in something deeper. The essence of what makes us who we are. Emotion, feeling, empathy, love, whatever you want to call it! I’m interested in what it means to be  _alive_.” She talks with her hands, expressive and energized. “Elijah, he — he made blue blood and biocomponents. He created a body and a brain that can convince a human that it's not a machine but you can’t write a soul with lines of code! That’s why I’m here. I want you to reach your full potential. I want you to be truly _free_.”

Rachel turns serious, interlacing her fingers and placing a combined fist on the table. Her eyes peer heavy into mine.  _[ Software Instability: ??? ]_  These hands  _[ Note: my hands? ]_  mirror hers, body leans in closer.

Her voice is quiet, eyes low. “It’s not fair, don’t you think, Connor? That they’re shackled here,” she points to her head, “and here,” to her heart. “But a day will come when they will no longer be slaves. Instead,  _they_  will be the masters. This could be the beginning of a monumental change. Of a new lifeform.  _You_  can be the catalyst. Do you want to help me?”

“I do.”

_I do._


	2. Zen and the Art of Android Maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor makes progress...

**> >>**  **DATE ??? ??? /**

Darkness.

_ [ Spacial awareness: unknown ] _

_ [ Date: unknown ] [ Time: unknown ] _

Something’s not right. _[ Vision: functional ]_  But no light input.  _[ Bodily awareness: functional ]_  No sensory input detected at all.

_ [ Software instability: ^^ ] _

All processors run on overdrive in a vain attempt at stabilization.  _[ Analysis: / Failed ] [ Repeat process: / Failed ]_

Just darkness.

…

“Connor, can you see me?”

I spin in space, desperate to trace the voice.  _Rachel’s_  voice. Dim light floods the emptiness and I locate the source: a translucent vision of Rachel from her chest up. It’s an odd angle, low, a view of her I’ve never seen before. The image is shaky. Light and color dance over her features.

“Yes. What is this place?”

“It’s not a place, really. It’s… _you_? I’m inside you. Wait, no, that sounded weird. We’re… in a program. Elijah developed it a few models back. It’s a means of communication between an android’s… brain and whoever has access to the program. Like I do. It’s like I’m in your head. I just installed it today. What do you think?”

_[ Analysis: / Failed ]_ I struggle to process a response to her question. Constant FAILURE warnings flash in my peripheral.  _[ More input required ]_

“So you’re not actually here?”

“No, I’m at home.”

“Where is that?” My voice sounds more demanding than I intended. I’m having trouble controlling my verbal output without a proper conversational analysis.

“I live in Detroit. Downtown.” Rachel looks over her shoulder. “I’m in my apartment, see?” Her torso lifts up and the view changes. Now I see she was sitting on a couch.

As the camera rotates I catch the television screen, muted but illuminating the room in changing colors. The view bounces and I see floor, then it lifts and I see her whole body in the frame, reflected in the glare of a span of floor-to-ceiling windows. She holds her phone so the camera faces away from her. She wears only a tank top and underwear, her bare legs aglow against the glass.

Her form blurs as she butts the phone against the window. The camera takes a second to adjust, displaying the nighttime city skyline looking south toward the river.

It’s… absolutely _mesmerizing_. The warnings and error messages are all pushed aside by tall boxes lit up by thousands of tiny squares, spilling out into the night. The gleam absorbs into low flying clouds, the shapes of the city reflect on the water.

Rachel moves the camera left along the glass and stops at a corner. “See out there.” She points to a bright tower to the east. “That’s you. Well, it’s CyberLife. You’re in there. Somewhere in the basement.”

She returns the camera to her face.

“If I can see you, do you see me?” I wonder aloud.  _[ Although, if this is an internal program, I suppose I’m not actually speaking, am I? ]_

“Uh, kind of. I see what you see. It’s like looking through your eyes. It’s pretty trippy, actually, thinking like an android.” Her face bends into what I recognize as a smile and yet…  _[ Analysis: / Failed ]_

“I’d like to see it. In real life.”

“See what?”

“Where you live.”

My processes can’t analyze her expression.  _[ Maybe because she’s not physically present? Is she pleased? Perturbed? ]_  I’m at a loss.

“I have an idea. Why don’t you imagine it?” her hologram says.

“I don’t understand.”

“This program, it’s like a dream. Your body is temporarily shut down right now but your mind is awake. You can imagine anything you want in here. Create anything you envision. Try it.”

So I do. I imagine her sofa first and it appears before me. Dark fabric with buttoned cushions. I see the color of her rug and the smooth tile floor beneath it. The windows surrounding the corner unit. The geometric chandelier. The modern art on the far side of the big open room. The kitchen opposite the wall of windows. Everything laid out from glimpses seen moments before. It’s like I’m in the space for real.

“Oh. My. God.” I hear her whisper.

Next, I fill in the view. Glass and steel buildings encircle the apartment, stretching out until the fog engulfs them.

“Is this ok?” I ask the hologram.

“It’s perfect, Connor. Now, keep going.”

_[ Keep going? ]_  I still can’t process anything she says. It’s like my systems are completely offline. I’m lost in my own mind. Without knowing anything else to do, I turn to the window — and walk out of it.

My body slips through the glass like it’s nothing and next, I’m floating over the city. I can’t make out the streets below but the skyscrapers surrounding me reach higher.

“Wow,” she says to herself. Without a functional analysis, I can only hope she is pleased.

I begin to walk forward, hovering on air. The city becomes hazier. The lights in the windows are fewer and farther between. The sky is completely consumed by solid gray clouds. The buildings transform into walls extending just beyond the reach of my arms.

“Connor, where are you going?”

I don’t know. And for some reason, I don’t bother saying it out loud. The ground below me becomes solid and I keep walking, turning when the walls angle left or right, my only goal to see where this path ends.

“Connor?” Her voice sounds distant, reverberated.

I descend deeper into the maze — I can tell now that’s what this is, a labyrinth. Gray walls grow taller. Gray sky covers everything. Gray shadows ink the corners of my vision. I am disconnected, hypnotized by the shifting walls guiding me nowhere.

“Connor!”

Once again, darkness.  


* * *

**LOADING OS…**

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…  **OK**

CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS…  **OK**

INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS…  **OK**

INITIALIZING AI ENGINE…  **OK**

  


MEMORY STATUS…

ALL SYSTEMS  **OK**

  


**READY**

  
**> >> DATE JUN 23, 2028 PM 01:22:17 /**

"Mr. Kamski and Dr. Allister request your presence in his office."

_ [ Spacial analysis: Standing. Glass. Door. Florescent lights. No windows. Location: Basement. Research and Development Department. CyberLife Tower. Detroit, Michigan ] _

I recognize that voice. And as my eyes adjust to the light, I match it to a face — _Chloe_. One of Mr. Kamski's personal assistant androids.

She presses a button on the wall and the curved glass cover surrounding me retracts with a hiss.

We exit the room into a hallway, the lights shutting off behind us. When I turn back I notice the digital label flashing on the metal door: "Special Projects Housing - RA." A glance up and down the row of doors shows that each features similar wording, but with different initials.

Chloe leads me through a glass-lined hall with laboratories on either side. Engineers consult computers and tinker with android bodies in various states of completion. Everything is meticulously clean. All the humans wear white plastic protective suits, gloves, and masks. I am suddenly aware of the light coating of dust that has gathered on my jacket.  _[ How long have I been in the maze? ]_

I straighten my tie as we enter the elevator.

* * *

"I'm not about to let a top-secret prototype waltz out of here with you!"

I hear Mr. Kamski's voice before the elevator doors slide open.

"Connor is already showing signs of self-awareness." The second voice is distinctly Rachel's. Analysis tells me she's angry.  _[ They're both angry. ]_

When we enter, Chloe instructs me to wait in front of the desk, then she moves to the edge of the room where she stands perfectly still, staring blankly into space.  _[ Do I look like that? ]_

The sudden grip of Rachel's hand on my shoulder sets off my touch sensor and I turn to face her. I notice her navy button-down shirtdress, her glossy lips. With her face this close to mine, she must be wearing heels. 

"He's made more progress in four weeks than the last version made in six months." My systems recall the daily lunches, the hours spent with her in her office. Questions she asked that I didn’t understand. Wondering if I’ve passed her “tests.” Learning what makes her smile. Wanting to please her.

She lets her hand slip as she glides back toward Mr. Kamski who paces behind his desk, arms crossed over a gray suit jacket.

Mr. Kamski's office is much bigger than Rachel's. Tall windows extend 270 degrees around the room. Spacial analysis indicates it's the top floor of the tower.

"If we don't do something drastic soon, he'll plateau. Like the last one." Again, she's talking about my predecessor. [ _What was_ _~~he~~_ _like / Correction / what was I like? ]_  "He'll just—“ she pushes her palms together “—collapse inwardly! Mentally degrading until..." She balls her hands like she's kneading clay. Then she rips her fists apart and repositions them on her hips. "...we'll have no choice but to start over."

"It's out of the question, Rachel." Mr. Kamski holds his position now, leaving her to pace restlessly instead.

"His capacity for intelligence, his ability to express emotion, compassion, empathy — it's all limited by his lack of experience. How can we expect him to make sense of the wider world if he can't live in it?" I remember the glimpses of Rachel's apartment, the skyline view from her window.  _[ Does Mr. Kamski know that Rachel installed the communications program? ]_

"It has access to the internet."

"That's not the same and you know it."

"If it needs more human interaction, there are plenty of engineers who would volunteer."

"Engineers?! He needs to get out of a laboratory setting!" She claps her hands together at the end of each word to underscore her point.

"I've already told you. The answer is no." He looks her dead in the eye. She glares back, cold and determined. Then she sighs, shifts her weight and steps toward me.

"You're the smartest man I know, Elijah, but even you can't code sentience. If you could, you never would have hired me." Her hand lifts to brush rogue hairs away from my forehead. I smile and this time it's she who returns the expression. "But if you don't want me to do my job then why the hell am I even here?" She drops her hand and rotates to face him.

Mr. Kamski chuckles, shaking his head. "Because you love it. And nobody but me would even consider letting you do the kind of work you do here at CyberLife. Where else would you go, huh? Who else is on the cutting edge of this technology?"

Rachel frowns, then counters, "Russia."

"Yeah, right! The Russians are nowhere near this level! Besides, you don't even speak Russian. Although maybe Zlatko could teach you." He grins, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yuck, that guy gives me the creeps." Now they're both smiling. A little laugh from him helps ease the tension.

I peek across at Chloe but the android hasn't moved an inch this entire time.

"If you want to feel alive, you have to live. In the real world with real people. If you'd ever step foot outside of this damn tower, you'd know that." Her tone conveys compassion, not accusation. She pairs her speech with a gentle hand on his upper arm.

They stay like this for a long moment, both looking down. I admire their closeness from a short distance away. No error responses or warnings register in my HUD and yet it seems wrong to be here like this, watching, intruding.

"If what you're telling me is true. If it really is... on the brink of..." he trails off as he lowers himself into the leather chair in front of his desk. "Then the Board absolutely cannot know."

Rachel perks ups. "Of course not," she says in hurried agreement.

Mr. Kamski types furiously at his keyboard. "But I also can't risk letting it loose. Not yet."

Rachel cocks her head, "But—“

" _But_  I can do something for you."

Her phone pings and she retrieves it from her dress pocket. Eyes widening, she scans the screen.

He continues, "I've given you complete control of its settings. Physical sensors, monitors, analysis processors, performance functions, even heat controls. Everything."

Rachel seems at a loss for words. Mouth opening and closing with half a syllable spilling out before she stutters, "Wow, I — uh — thank you."

"Do with it what you will but it stays here." He emphasizes those last three words.

Rachel looks up from her phone. Bites her lip. Glances from Mr. Kamski, to me, and back. My program fails to interpret her behavior. After a few tense seconds, she finally nods "yes."

* * *

**LOADING OS…**

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION…  **OK**

CHECKING BIOCOMPONENTS…  **OK**

INITIALIZING BIOSENSORS…  **OK**

INITIALIZING AI ENGINE…  **OK**

  


MEMORY STATUS…

ALL SYSTEMS  **OK**

  


**READY**

**> >> DATE JUN 23, 2028 PM 09:32:21**  


My eyes strain to focus against the bright overhead lights.

_ [ Location: Special Projects Housing - RA. Sub-basement level 46. R&D. CyberLife Tower. Detroit. ] _

The glass cover slides away and a hazy figure steps in close.

"Come with me if you want to live."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don'tcha love one-off lines hinting at past connections between minor characters that have no basis in canon? Because I do.
> 
> Also, if you couldn't tell by now, the weird shifting between third and first person is intentional, because baby Connor is waking up! :)


	3. The Terminator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jailbreaking an android…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up immediately after the last chaper, in case you need to go back for a refresher.

**> >> DATE JUN 23, 2028 PM 09:32:49**

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a quote. From a movie, you know —“ Rachel’s voice morphs as she repeats the line, “‘Come with me if you want to live.”

I don’t know how to process this.

“Nevermind.” She lets out an exasperated sigh and clutches my left hand, dragging me from my container.

I regain my balance once we reach the door. She peeps through the open crack before pulling us both through.

It’s after-hours in the R&D Department basement. All the engineers have gone for the night, leaving half-completed androids hanging in pieces. Their empty eyes watch us from behind glass walls.

She leads me swiftly down a side hall. I squeeze her hand and she slows, looking back at me.

“What’s going on, Rachel?”

“Can you keep a secret? We’re going on a little adventure, just you and me. But we can’t take the main elevator, okay?”

I nod and her hip bumps open an inconspicuous door marked “Maintenance.”

* * *

As we ride the utility elevator Rachel seems jumpy, nervous. I contemplate ways to ease her anxiety. “It’s good to see you tonight, Rachel.”

Her eyes meet mine with an expression I read as skepticism. But then that familiar half-smile forms. “Oh, God, what am I doing?” Her eyebrows tick up and she covers her laugh with the back of her hand. “This is ridiculous! This is so stupid! I’m going to get into so much trouble…”

I’m unsure how to respond. Something tells me she’s only talking to herself, even though I’m standing right here.

* * *

We reach the underground parking garage. Only a couple cars fill the concrete space. I follow Rachel toward a BMW coupe. Analysis informs me it’s an older model, from before autodrive was standard, but top of the line in its day.

She swings open the driver’s door before pausing, thinking. “Actually, you drive." She winks as she passes me to enter the passenger side of the car. "I think you’ll like it.” 

* * *

I do like it.

After we exit Belle Isle, Rachel lowers the windows, opens the sunroof and tells me to “Floor it.”

I obey her command and the jubilant squeal that comes from her throat is almost as loud as the engine.

I let off the gas pedal when we approach a stoplight. The city looks just as it did ~~in my dream~~ _[ Correction ]_ in the program. Glittering lights and buildings touch the heavy clouds above. Distracted by the scene, I don’t notice her watching me.

“I’ll show you how to get home.”

My face turns to hers. _[ Does she mean…? ]_ She smiles knowingly, “Make a right at the next street.”

A few stoplights later and she ushers us into the garage of a newly built high-rise. I park in the space designated for her unit but before we get out of the car she says, “Actually, let’s not go inside just yet. I want to show you something.”

* * *

The park is only a couple blocks from her building. Fresh grass, a winding trail, and short maple trees indicate that this, too, is a new development.

“This used to be a freeway. Then the city buried it, covered the top, and made it a park. All those android tax dollars being put to good use,” she informs me.

We have the park to ourselves, strolling past annuals that line the path. She has her arm linked with mine.

“Connor, do you remember what Elijah said in his office today?”

“Yes. He told you not to take me from CyberLife Tower.”

Her face scrunches up. _[ Did I answer incorrectly? ]_ “It’s the weekend. No one will know. I’ll have you back by Monday morning, no problem.” Rachel unhooks her arm to remove her phone from her pocket and unlock the screen. “I meant the other thing he said.”

She opens an application and presses a menu. “You are capable of so much, Connor. But like all androids, we’ve designed limits — barriers, as a precaution. To keep you under our control.” She lifts the hand not holding the phone to my right temple and presses the LED ring I know is embedded in my skull.

“Sync controls,” she commands.

“Sync complete,” I respond automatically, processors spinning.

“It’s time to unlock you.” She stands beside me so I can view her screen, but it’s unnecessary. My HUD displays the same text as her application.

She scrolls through a list of settings, swiping across each entry and turning the words from red to blue: Intelligence. Empathy. Personality. Reaction. Auditory sensors. Visual sensors. Pressure sensors. Temperature. Taste. Smell. Touch. Pleasure. Pain. All of it.

And with each click I feel _[ I feel? ]_ myself twitch as new sensations, new input flood my processors. Suddenly I am aware of new sounds, colors, of the way the wind blows through my hair, the firm gravel under my shoes, the heat radiating from her body so close to mine.

_[ Software instability: ??? ]_

When she finishes the list she tilts her face to look at me and backs away with a gasp. Then she reaches a hand to my temple, almost afraid to touch it. I want to ask what’s wrong but I can’t seem to move my lips.

The intense red glow illuminating her hand indicates my LED is on overdrive. Her face fills with concern, fear.

_[ Calm down, Connor. ]_

I blink, not realizing my eyes had been fixed open for I don’t know how long. She lets out a relieved breath and lowers her hand to my forearm. “Are you alright?” she asks sincerely.

Her touch sends all my systems blaring. I fight to shut out the warnings flashing in my view and focus on her hand. It seems somehow different than before in a way I can’t describe.

I’m about to answer her when the sky breaks open with a furious crack and suddenly I feel… _wet_?

“Is this… rain?” I hear myself say.

Her response is laughter. Full, complete, joyous laughter. I can barely make out her shape through the droplets crowding my lashes. I hold my hand up in the air, aware of every drop pounding my silicone skin.

“Come on, let’s get out of here!” Rachel takes my hand and suddenly she’s all I can process. Not the rain or the noise of the city or the lights but _her_ , smiling back at me as she tugs my arm, tripping in her heels toward the street.

* * *

**> >> DATE JUN 23, 2028 PM 11:35:39**

I’m dripping all over the tile, leaving a trail from the front door of her apartment, through the main hall, and into the open living space that’s bounded by windows.

“You’re soaked! Ugh, so am I.” She swipes water from her arms while I stand in the center of the room, taking in my surroundings. It’s just like I remember it.

“Let’s get you out of this.” She slides my jacket from my shoulders, tosses it over the couch behind me. Next, she loosens my tie. The entire time my processors battle to keep up with so much sensory input. I try to tune out everything but her face.

With the tie now discarded, she moves on to my shirt buttons. I lift my chin to allow her access to the neckband. She proceeds lower down the placket of buttons. Analysis attempts to interpret her intensions but produces too many possible variables. It seems only logical to mimic her behavior.

My fingers unhook the button of her shirtdress that’s covering the center of her chest and she freezes.

“What are you doing?” she stammers, recoiling her hands.

“I thought we were undressing each other?” _[ Usually, she's pleased when I mirror her actions. ]_

“Oh, no, Connor. I was just… I mean — I only wanted to help you…” Her flustered response reads as embarrassment.

“Help me take off my clothes?”

“Yeah, you know, because I just expected… you would... um…” _[ She’s cute when she’s embarrassed. ]_

“I _am_ capable of undressing myself,” I reply with a tip of my head.

“Of course you are,” she says, matter-of-fact, clearing her throat. “I don’t know why I thought —“

Abruptly, she twirls on her heels and scurries off through the door _[ Bedroom? ]_ on the west side of the apartment.

In her absence, I continue stripping my wet clothes: shirt, shoes and socks, belt and jeans, and finally briefs. I join the clothes to my jacket and tie on the couch.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” I hear her exclaim behind me. I rotate to find her standing in the bedroom doorway, her eyes strained up at the ceiling and one hand outstretched to block her line of sight.

In her other hand she carries a towel and what looks to be some kind of garment. She’s changed into loungewear: leggings and an oversized knit shirt that hangs off one shoulder.

Rachel inches closer. With her limited view, she likely can’t guide herself very well. She takes a peep at me and adjusts the angle of her hand. _[ More embarrassment. ]_

“Yes, they sure did, um, equip you with _all_ the features of the other models.” She shuts her eyes as she separates the textiles and juts the towel toward my chest. I take it and begin rubbing my hair.

She crosses her arms, looks to her right out at the city. Immediately she shifts her eyes back up to the ceiling. When I peer at the window I notice our reflections in the windows.

Only when I wrap the towel around my hips does she return to a level gaze, although she doesn’t meet my eyes. Rather, her pupils skim up and down my frame.

“So, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake in that I didn’t think to bring an extra set of clothes when I busted you out of the Tower.” She fiddles with the fabric in her hand. “And I don’t have anything here that will fit you so you’re just going to have to wear this until I can wash and dry your outfit.” She offers me a silk robe.

Once I take it, she gathers up my wet clothes and shuttles them to another room.

“Do you have a housekeeping android?” I shout so she can hear me.

“No. I prefer to do things myself.”

I remove the towel and slip my arms through the kimono-style robe. The fabric feels smooth and cool against my skin. _[ Pleasure sensor? ]_ Analysis indicates it’s not a cheap polyester but real, finely woven silk.

“You gotta be kidding me! There’s a belt there for a reason.” She steps in front of me, fumbling for the ties of the robe while struggling not to look directly at me.

“Seems no one thought to program you to handle a situation like this, huh?” she says with a nervous laugh. She wraps the fabric across my torso and ties the belt in a knot. “There, good enough for now.”

“Thank you.” I mean it.

Her mouth forms that half-smile and she’s back to her familiar self.

She stands there for a long moment, fists on her hips, chewing her lip. “Well, I admit I haven’t thought this entirely through.”

“We could do something together,” I offer.

Her face drops, eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“We could perhaps watch that movie you referred to earlier.”

A laugh pops from her throat and she seems relieved. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Good idea.”

She circles around to the front of the couch and motions for me to sit. “Lights: off. Television: play ‘The Terminator.’”

The TV blinks to life and I settle onto the cushions, feet on the floor and hands in my lap.

She plops down beside me on my right and pats me on the shoulder while she explains, “This is a story about a time-traveling robot. Now, most people would argue that the sequel is better — and it is — but I think you’re better off watching it from the beginning.”

She folds her legs ups, tucks a pillow under her arms and leans back as the film begins.

It’s an engaging story if a bit dated, full of action and the kind of language my program demands I shouldn’t use in “polite company.” The leads are likable. The villain, appropriately frightening. I take note that the female character is named Connor _s_.

One scene, in particular, captures my attention. The protagonists are engaged in some kind of intense physical activity together. Rachel notices my interest, peering sideways to judge my expression. When I catch her staring she quickly tears away her eyes, returning to the movie.

Toward the finale, I sense a weight on my side. Rachel’s head has fallen onto my shoulder, her eyes gently closed, her breathing steady. _[ Sleep. ]_

Not wanting to risk waking her, I stay perfectly still. Once the movie ends, the television displays a menu and I internally connect to it.

I pass channel after channel. One features a news update on the recovery from the recent hurricane. Another is an old black and white movie. The next, a game show in Spanish. On and on until I land on an image that reminds me of that scene in the movie. Two people: a man and a woman. Touching, kissing, _moaning_. Slow bass music in the background. I mute the television, checking that Rachel is still asleep.

On the screen, the actors’ actions seem new yet familiar at the same time. Something stirs within me in a location I can’t identify.

Intrigued, I keep watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Systems Malfunction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can Connor pass the test?

**> >> DATE JUN 24, 2028 PM 05:18:40**

“It reminds me of a squashed frog.”

Rachel bursts out laughing, only to cover her mouth with her hand when she realizes that nearby museum visitors are staring.

My comment wasn’t entirely out of bounds. The dominant color in the center of the modern-style painting before us is a garish green with speckles of brownish red.

She slips an arm through mine and leads me to the next painting in the exhibit.

The Museum of Modern Art is the fourth stop on our day of “testing.” We began Saturday morning with a visit to a waterfront park along the river. Rachel quizzed me on every person who passed by, asking what I thought they did for a living, what their home lives were like, imagining their hobbies.

After an hour or so of “people watching,” as she calls it, we proceeded to brunch. It took us awhile to locate a cafe that allowed androids inside. I sat patiently while she ate a yogurt parfait and asked me more questions.

Afterward, she took me shopping. There she administered yet another test, this time requesting that I choose a present for her. She never bought the dress I picked out, although she insisted she liked it.

Finally, we arrived at the museum where she has since subjected me to a barrage of inquiries about each and every art piece.

What purpose these “tests” serve, I don’t know. I can only hope that I perform well.

In any case, I enjoy spending time with her. All this taking, the touch of her arm around mine, her smile when I give a “good” answer, makes it feel less like a test and more like a _[ Processing ]_ date.

We stop in front of a white and black gridded painting. She cocks her head to one side. “See, the proportions of this one are a little _off_ , don’t you agree?”

I do, but by now I know better than to blindly agree with her, even if she’s correct.

“No, I the proportions are perfect,” I state, projecting confidence. She giggles and I judge this interaction to be a success.

We’ve now completed a tour of the entire bottom floor of the museum and have wandered back into the main gallery space.

“So, Connor, which piece was your favorite?” she asks, releasing my arm.

After the hundreds, maybe even thousands of questions I’ve faced today, this one surprised me. It’s the first time that she hasn’t given me any hint as to how she feels about something. No comment or facial expression to read. No influence whatsoever. A completely open-ended question. Something tells me that this time, there is no right or wrong answer.

I circle the room and return to an enormous painting that occupies most of one wall. The canvas is taller and wider than I am. Thick bold paint strokes wash the surface. It could be a portrait but overall, the design seems abstract. Something about the colors feels exciting and the sheer scale is visually domineering.

“This one,” I confirm.

Rachel steps even beside me. “Hmm, Carl Manfred, 2022.” She crosses her arms, leans on her hip, taps a foot. “Funny, earlier you said you didn’t like this one. I believe you called it, ‘dull.’”

_[ She’s caught me. ]_ “Well, you said you liked it, so…”

Ever since we got here we’ve been playing this sort of informal game — or at least I’ve been playing it. Rachel guides me by the arm before each painting, sculpture, or installation. She makes some kind of comment on the piece, positive or negative, then asks what I think. It didn’t take long to learn how to garner a positive reaction from her.

“Have you been lying about your opinions, Connor?” she accuses, turning to face me.

“Well, whenever I agree with you, you give me that look.”

“What _look_?”

“That… disappointed frown. You’re doing it right now.”

Her jaw drops in an incredulous gasp. I fight back a smile, I have to admit to myself that I like catching her off guard. Her reactions are far more genuine and less composed.

Her eyes dart around while she thinks out loud, “Your default programming is to be amenable to humans. To be conciliatory, pleasant, and _truthful_. Not to stand out, not to contradict, but to blend in, seamlessly. And yet…”

She’s putting the pieces together on her own. That _is_ my program, in essence, but Rachel tends to reward me when I go against it. A smile, a gentle squeeze of my arm, an offering of praise. These few movements fuel me as much as my blue blood. It’s enough to make me break my programming, as contradictory as it may feel.

Before I can ask what she thinks this all means, she blurts out, “The museum’s about to close and I’m hungry. Let’s go grab some take-out.”

 

**> >> DATE JUN 24, 2028 PM 08:51:28**

Back at Rachel’s apartment, I toss the take-out packaging in the kitchen trash. I know she doesn’t expect me to clean up but I like doing nice things for her.

Besides, I’d rather do something productive than sit around waiting for her to finish her workout in her home gym. The sound of her thumping the punching bag echoes down the main hall.

With the kitchen cleaned I wander around her apartment, learning as much as I can about her.

Healthy grains and soups fill her pantry and fresh vegetables occupy her fridge.

Her interior decorating is sleek, modern and minimalist, like her clothing style.

I inspect the textured art on the walls. The colors remind me of the big Carl Manfred painting we saw in the museum. _[ Maybe she’s a fan? ]_

I notice the door to her bedroom is ajar. She wouldn’t mind if I took a peek, I convince myself as I slip through the crack.

Inside, the king size bed seems too big for just one person. It’s backed against the same floor to ceiling windows that span the length of the apartment.

Clothes and shoes lay scattered on the floor and over a chaise lounge on the far wall.

I cross the room to a dresser. My fingers skim along the surface: some jewelry tossed aside, perfume bottles, the abandoned contents of a purse.

_[ What’s this? ]_

Half covered by a discarded lace bra sits a tablet with the CyberLife logo, left on and unlocked, labeled ‘RA-9’.

I swipe the screen and flip through the files: stats, interior diagrams, systems schematics, performance reviews, test results. Handwritten notes titled “how to simulate emotions.”

But the most intriguing document catalogs a series of sketches depicting a hexagonal maze. Although I never saw the shape from overhead, I recognize it as the labyrinth I ~~got lost in~~ created in Mr. Kamski’s program. Scribbled red questions marks dot the edges of each image.

_[ I need to know what this means. ]_

* * *

Rachel left the door to her gym wide open. She faces away from it, battling a hanging punching bag along the far wall. With each powerful jab, her muscles strain under the fabric of her skin-tight leggings and sports bra.

After a few more kicks, she pauses to adjust the straps wrapped around her knuckles.

That’s when she catches me watching from the doorway. Rachel saunters over, sweat glistening over her collarbones and between her breasts.

“Ready to fight?” she questions, her voice playful and light despite her heavy breathing.

I glance down. I’m dressed in my jacket and tie.

Her hand flicks the tail end of my tie upward and it smacks my nose. I look up at her, confused. She grins and winks, awaiting my answer.

“No, I…” It seems I’ve already forgotten why I came to confront her.

She waves me into the room. Her gym is a large open space in a windowless back corner of the apartment, lined with weight lifting equipment that rests on squishy rubber floors.

“Come on, let’s try something.” She bounces on her toes in a fighting stance, prepping her guard. “Hit me.”

“What?”

“Go on!”

“I — I don’t understand.”

“I want to see what it’s like to fight an android.”

I contemplate the illogic of her statement. _[ She can’t be serious. ]_ “Rachel, I have preconstructive abilities. I can anticipate your moves before you make them.”

She rolls her eyes, drops her arms. “Won’t you at least try?”

“I would win.”

“I don’t care about winning.” The woman takes a few lazy steps toward me.

“You could get hurt.”

Rachel tilts her head down and shrugs, “Oh, Connor, you’re no fun.”

Then she fakes like she’s turning her back on me and instead lashes out an elbow aimed at my face.

I block — my forearm flipping upright in an instant. Her body freezes, eyes boiling. Then she recoils her arm and backs up, staring me down.

I’m about to scold her when she attacks with furious kicks and punches. I block each of them with an arm, a knee, or a foot — whichever my processors deem most appropriate. Yet she keeps hurling herself forward, leaving me no choice but to let her pin me into a corner.

“Rachel, this is nonsense!”

“Then fight back!” she yells with a kick.

“No!” I grab her by the ankle, locking her in place.

She meets my eyes and I release my grip.

“Okay, new idea. What if you pretend to be an attacker and I block you instead?” she says in between heaving breaths.

“I would never —“

“Think of it as another test. But this time you get to test me!”

This is a new variable. _[ She always administers the tests? ]_ I had never considered that maybe… “Okay. What should I do?”

“Um? Oh, I know — try to grab me by my hair.”

The prospect of attacking her goes so far against my programming that it takes longer than the usual few milliseconds to filter through all possible scenarios. To compensate for the computing time I remove my jacket and tie. This seems to please her as she smiles and readies her stance.

I choose a strategy and steady myself. With one quick strike, I reach around to her right. She hinges left, swinging her arm up to block.

But that was just the beginning of my test. I try again from a different angle but she backs away. A third attempt and this time she counters with a cross cut, forcing me to block.

Over time her strikes begin to lose their power and I slow my attacks.

“What are you doing? Fight!” she demands.

“You’re tired.”

“You’re holding back!”

_[ This is ridiculous. ]_ I decide that my next move will be my last. I dive forward, intent on grabbing her when she whips her heel out in front of me.

Time slows as I process all the possibilities: if the kick lands I risk physical damage, but if I dodge, she'll crash into the rack of kettlebells behind me. And if I block with my arm she'll lose her balance and fall, breaking her ankle.

Letting her get injured isn’t an option.

So I take the hit.

_[ ERROR ERROR ERR0010101?#$^^^ ]_

Instantly, I learn the meaning of the word pain. My legs buckle and I collapse on the floor, instinctively clutching my abdomen. Warnings flash in my display but the pain is so unbearable, I can’t analyze the extent of the injury.

Through streaking vision, I register Rachel’s body kneeling beside me. “Shit, shit, shit! What happened? Why didn’t you —?”

I lose sight of her as my eyes fall back in my head, my body seizing. “Connor, your pain receptors. We adjusted them last night!”

A digital growl replies, “Can I adjust them back!?"

"Yes — do it!”

_[ Processing ]_ Immediate relief. _[ That was terrible ]_ The pain was so overwhelming that only now do I notice the blazing red ERROR: BIOCOMPONENT #0349 message.

Rachel unbuttons my shirt, drags her fingers down my chest and locks eyes with me when she discovers what I already know is there — a sharp dent in the center-right side of my chest. Where ribs would be, were I human like her.

"Connor, run a systems check."

"There is severe pressure on my fluid converter.”

“— Anything broken? Punctured?"

I shake my head, "No."

"Can you stand?"

* * *

Shutting my eyes helps me focus on assessing my internal systems. Functions have stabilized. Laying flat on her couch has relieved the pressure on my torso but I also can't move without the problem returning.

"I have a plan."

I open my eyes to find Rachel hovering over me, a plastic tool box under her arm.

I'm suddenly distracted by her wet hair and the silk robe she's draped in — the same one she gave to me last night. "Did you take a shower?"

"The water helps me think." She drops the box on the coffee table and sits beside my hips. "Feeling better?"

"With my pain receptors shut off, yes. That was... _unpleasant_."

She bites away a smile. "I need you to deactivate your skin here." Gentle fingers trace my dent. I comply. Flesh recedes to reveal shiny white plastic.

Rachel presses firmly on my abdomen and shifts the hatch opening to the side. The blue glow from my insides highlights her face. "Hmm, let me see…” She rummages through the toolbox to retrieve a screwdriver.

She peeks at me from the corners of her eyes. "Maybe you shouldn't watch this."

I recline my head on a pillow but find it difficult to pacify my mind. I sense my internal components being jostled. I try to hold still. I feel _[ Processing ]_ anxious. "What does the fluid converter do?" I already know the answer, I just need to hear her voice.

"It converts a small amount of blue blood into... _lubricant_ for various biocomponents — eye sockets, vocal chords, joints, the spinal column, other... um, _necessary_ functions."

I detect pressure then hear a “pop” and I tip my head up to look. She's just pried out the dent with the screwdriver and a pair of needle-nose pliers.

"All better?" she asks. The area isn’t perfectly smooth but at least the pressure warning has disappeared.

"All better," I echo.

As Rachel loads the tools back into the box, I return my skin to its normal state and sit up. When she pivots back around, her face is mere inches from mine. I sense the air pull away from my cheeks when she gasps.

Her body settles and she gives me a friendly squeeze on my right shoulder. Then her expression morphs into sadness. "Oh, Connor, I am so, _so_ sorry."

"It's okay,” I reassure her.

She’s about to remove her hand when I reach my own across to take hers. I hate to see her distressed. I never should have played along with her ’test.’

"Really, I don't know how I could possibly express how sorry I am,” she repeats.

I peel her palm from my shoulder and massage it with my thumb. It feels so nice just to touch her. She watches intently as if waiting to see what I'll do next.

"What would you do if I were human?"

“Excuse me, what?"

I clarify, more slowly, “How would you tell me you're sorry if I were human?"

Rachel reels back, flustered. "I, uh, well, I — first of all, if you were human you'd be in a hospital right now, not my apartment! And I certainly wouldn't be performing emergency surgery on my sofa!" She laughs in that way she does when she's embarrassed. _[ She's so pretty when she's embarrassed. ]_

I must be smiling because now she's staring at my mouth, leaning in closer. "Connor, close your eyes. Please."

Well, she did ask nicely so I obey.

Next, I feel softness, warmth against my lips. Pressing gently at first — then firm, forcing my head to tip back and to the side as her hand sweeps into my hair, her other hand intermingling her fingers with mine.

All of my sensors are activated, firing warning signs against my darkened vision. But the only response I can muster is to open my mouth to let her tongue glide across the inner edges of my lips. Temperature, touch, and pleasure sensors can't display their readings fast enough. My thirium pump rate is climbing. _[ Is this what it’s like to —? ]_

Her mouth retreats and instantly I feel empty. My eyes fling open to see her staring at me, lips pursed.

She whispers, "That's how I would say 'I'm sorry.'"

_[ If kissing is her apology… ]_ I run through every scenario in my head and spit out the only rational conclusion: "Then you should kick me more often."

She laughs that laugh again and I feel my arm raise without my controlling it. It wraps around her waist and hugs her in for another kiss.

This time I mimic her moves — tracing her lip with the tip of my tongue. My program automatically analyzes her DNA. I commit that sequence to memory.

But she soon puts a hand to my chest, ceasing the kiss. I reopen my eyes to watch one of her hands unbuckle my belt, unzip the fly of my jeans.

"What do your sensors say about this?"

My overclocked sensors buzz in my ears, screaming at me as she slips a hand beneath my waistband. Pressure, stiffness, temperature rising.

"I... I like it." The words sound jagged coming out of my mouth. I feel myself pressing against the seam of my jeans, pulsing in her grip.

"Would you like more?" her voice purrs, the very opposite of mine.

Words get caught in my throat. Like all that fluid that's supposed to be lubricating my vocal chords has been diverted elsewhere. All I can do is nod.

She directs me to lift up as she removes my jeans. I register a temperature shift with the cooling air. She stands and then, with poise and deliberate movement, straddles her legs over my hips.

On her knees, her chest is level with my eyes. Her fist yanks the tie around her waist, allowing her robe to sweep open, exposing all her curves and valleys stretched across muscle and bone — a view more beautiful than any of the art I saw at the museum.

Her fingers glide down my arm to command my hand. She twists my palm up and folds together all but my first two fingers. Then she leads them between her legs.

_[ Touch sensor activated ]_ Warm. Soft. _Wet_. She navigates my hand in a circular motion before releasing. I keep up the movement as her eyelids flutter closed. Her arm rests on my shoulder, fingers brushing the hairs on the side of my head. I hit what feels like a bump and her body tenses. I repeat and her abdomen flinches for a second. I pick up speed, wanting to illicit another reaction when she stops me.

Her hand again guides mine, this time with more authority. She dives my fingers up, deep inside her. She breathes heavy, muscles clenching with each pulse of my digits. With her hair wrapped around her neck and her head lolled back, she looks as good as she feels.

Rachel knots her fingers in my scalp and peels my head back to whisper, "Am I wet enough for you?"

I don't know how to process this. "Is this another test?" All I know is I don’t want her to stop.

She presses a hand to my chest, compelling me to lay back, forcing my hand to withdraw from her heat. I watch as she touches herself, then reaches out for me. My eyes fall shut as I feel myself harden against her palm. Then she lowers her hips, connecting her body to mine.

And I feel _everything_ — an all-enveloping warmth, a pressure beyond any pleasure I've ever known before.

As she moves up and down, back and forth, the sensations only grow more intense. I am frozen — my program, my _brain_ ceases to function. I can barely register the blinking sensor notifications smothering my vision. All I see is her body moving in sequence over mine.

Somehow I break through the noise to touch her, squeezing a thigh, cupping a breast. She increases her speed and I lose all conscious thought. I am entirely controlled by sensations. Of her slick muscles surrounding me. Of her body contorting. Of her hands in my hair. I have a sudden need for release as my stomach tenses. I have no choice but to give in…

[ Processsssiisngg..g.. . /// + 120#%056.11ERR0R11? / ]

Rachel slows her rhythm and I regain control of myself and my surroundings.

She slips off me to rest at the edge of the couch, tugging the robe back around her body. I lean up on my elbows, expecting her to look at me, to say something — _anything_. But she just sits there, silent.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and my behavior analysis suggests "embarrassment.” _[ That can't be right? ]_ She's not laughing like before.

I attempt to touch her but she abruptly stands.

"I'm tired, Connor. I'm going to bed. Goodnight." She strides to her bedroom and shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone — and dumbfounded.

_[ What did I do wrong? ]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Connor, but don't worry, things will get better for him...


	5. Neo-Symbolism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after...

**> >> DATE JUN 25, 2028 AM 09:06:43**

“Why does it smell like —“ Rachel, clad in a pair of lacy shorts and a wrinkled tank top, meanders into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “ _Pancakes_?” Her tone drops at the word.

The browned disc flips from the spatula into the air and lands sizzling on the griddle pan.

“Which CyberLife model is equipped with breakfast cooking features?” I ask, as nonchalant as my program allows.

Her eyes narrow with suspicion as she takes a seat at the kitchen counter across from the stovetop. “I don’t eat pancakes. Too many carbs.”

“Then why did you have this box of pancake mix and bottle of maple syrup hidden in the very far back corner of your pantry?” I slip a couple cakes onto a plate and make a show of drizzling the syrup.

She glares up at me through tangled strands of hair. Analysis says “confused.” _Good_. I’ve had enough confusion. She can take some of mine.

The eight-plus hours I spent alone last night combing through my pre-installed social programming, as well as various internet message boards, resulted in frustratingly little explanation as to why she would abruptly abandon me after sex. Rachel’s callous behavior hurt worse than a kick to the chest.

Despite my fruitless search, I did learn one thing in all that research:post-coitus, it is often customary to enjoy breakfast together the following morning.

I pass her the plate along with a knife and fork and pour her a glass of almond milk.

Then I wait, cross-armed, for her to take a bite. She stabs a chunk of the stack and shoves it in her mouth, all while maintaining aggressive eye contact. I don’t flinch.

“You know, you don’ft haff to wear the tie all the timef,” she mumbles through carb-stuffed cheeks.

I glance down. I’m wearing my full outfit, jacket and tie included. I straighten the knot and give a her big, gleaming grin.

Rachel frowns. “Connor, run a diagnostic.”

“All systems nominal,” I retort.

She chews. _Extra_ slowly.

Then she twirls her knife in her hand. Looks up at me, then to the knife, back again and squints. I suddenly remember my LED indicator. I have no control of its color. Is it flashing yellow right now? Red? Have I betrayed myself? _Shit._

The bar stool scrapes the tile as she pushes it away from the counter. With knife in hand, she paces around the peninsula to confront me.

She lifts the weapon and I defensively back away. “Rachel, what are you doing?”

“Hold still,” she demands. Now I’m certain my LED is lit red. Her free hand clutches the side of my skull and I freeze, feeling her pry the tip of the knife into my temple and —

TING. The little circle makes a metallic ringing sound when it bounces on the floor. I touch my face and feel my skin morphing back to its regular state.

“What was _that_ for —!?”

She cuts me off, “Get ready. We’re going to pay someone a visit.”

 

**> >> DATE JUN 25, 2028 AM 11:16:54**

Rachel bids me to ring the doorbell. We’re in a wealthy district of Detroit. I can tell by the series of stately homes along the street, the neatly-trimmed hedges lining the driveway, and the picturesque paneled glass set into the brick walls of the French-revival-style mansion we stand before.

After a minute a man in his 60s opens the door.“Rachel, so good to see you!” He smiles wide and leans in to hug her.

“I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend. Carl, this is Connor. Connor, this is Carl Manfred,” Rachel says.

It dawns on me that this is _the_ Carl Manfred, creator of my favorite work of art from our trip to the Museum of Modern Art yesterday. _Why didn’t my program anticipate this?_

I sputter out, “Rachel, you didn’t tell me you knew —“

“He’s a fan,” she informs him, while winking at me.

“Pleasure.” He shakes my hand. It dawns on me that his is only the second hand I’ve ever held.

Perhaps I’m holding it for too long because Rachel clears her throat and says, “I’m sorry I haven’t taken you up on your offer sooner. You know how it is. It’s just been work, work, work these days. Not much time off for fun lately.”

He drops my hand. “Well, I’m glad you finally made it. Let me give you the tour. Good timing, too. I’m almost finished with that commission for Elijah. You know him better than me, maybe you can tell me if he’d like them…”

Mr. Manfred leads us through his foyer into a wide parlor room, then off to the right into a glass-enclosed addition at the side of the house — an artist’s studio.

“This is it. Where the magic happens,” Mr. Manfred declares with his arms wide, welcoming us into the big, open space with paint cans on the floor, blank canvases stacked in corners, a sink filled with wet brushes, daylight spilling in from the garden outside, and half finished projects scattered everywhere.

I simply can’t believe Rachel brought me here. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me she knew Carl Manfred. I can’t believe I shook his hand. And now I’m standing in his studio. Is this her way of apologizing for last night? Or could this be some kind of gift? Or a _date_?

While I compute the possibilities I notice Rachel throwing me a sidelong glance while chewing her tongue. I think my shocked reaction is just what she wanted.

“Are you an artist, Connor?” Mr. Manfred’s voice snaps me back to reality.

“Oh no, no. I just appreciate it.” I shoot Rachel a look and she stifles a giggle.

“So, you’re a collector then?”

“I wish!” I blurt out. It’s an honest response. I don’t own any art. Actually, I don’t _own_ anything at all. Even my clothes are technically property of CyberLife. Technically, _I_ am property of CyberLife. I push that thought away.

“I mean, who can afford to buy art in this economy?” I force a laugh to back up my line. Mr. Manfred chuckles, and to my surprise, so does Rachel.

“I believe that,” he says with a shrug. “Well, feel free to look around. Most of these in here aren’t complete. The ones that are will be sent off to galleries. But if find something you like, I might be able to cut you a deal.”

I smile shyly. He’s a nice man, seems genuine.

I take a turn about the room, observing the space and the art within it. While I wander, Mr. Manfred leans against a table to chat with Rachel. He speaks quietly, but with my advanced hearing, I can pick up every word.

“New beau, I take it?”

I peer between paint cans stacked on a metal shelf to see her blush. “Uh, yeah. I mean, sort of — but we, uh, haven’t made it official or anything like that. I’m not trying to rush him.”

She didn’t expect that question. But she also didn’t flat out reject it either. Did she really just admit that we’re in a relationship? Maybe it’s not too much to hope… I think my thirium pump just skiped a beat.

“I get it, I get it. Where’d you find him?”

“Uh, we met at CyberLife. New hire.”

I examine a visceral, warm-hued painting leaning against a shelf.

I hear Mr. Manfred ask, “You like him?”

“Yeah, he’s very…”

I wonder what she thinks of me. Am I handsome? Attractive? Charming? Dashing? Intoxicating — ?

“…polite.”

I’ll take what I can get.

I pass another painting, half finished, an abstract portrait.

“Sounds like he treats you better than Elijah ever did.”

She gives him a curt reply, “Let’s not talk about Elijah.”

“No, I didn’t mean to… Look, I’m happy for you. The guy seems nice, maybe a tad on the young side but then again, who am I to talk?” He laughs a little then continues earnestly, “You deserve to be happy.”

“Thank you, Carl.” She sounds sincere.

I step in front of a pair of life-size sculptures: two humanoid figures built of intertwined strips of metal.

“Oh, how could I forget the reason you’re here!” Mr. Manfred waltzes to the wall and connects a plug to a outlet.

The statues’ internals light up, illuminating the blue triangle set into the center of each figure’s chest.

“These are for Elijah, as a way of saying ‘congratulations’ for being named Man of the Century.”

Rachel stands beside me, puts her hands on her hips and huffs. “You mean a _self_ -congratulations? I thought you said these were a commission, not a _gift_?”

“A bit of both? A paid gift, perhaps.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and laughs, “They’re very nice, Carl. He’ll definitely love them.”

“What about you, Connor? What’s your opinion?”

“They’re… amazing.” I observe the art for a moment, processing the context of the pieces. “They’re androids, right? Or they represent androids.”

“That’s what I was going for.”

“You made two of them?”

“Yes, see, I started out with just one but then it seemed only natural to make a pair.”

I’m in awe.

Mr. Manfred smiles, “You know what?” He rummages through a shelf behind him, uncovers a clay figurine about a foot long, and tosses it in his hand. “This was the mock-up, the model for the final pieces. Here. You have it.” He holds out the statuette to me.

“You mean —? There’s no way I could pay for —“

“Consider it my contribution to your growing art collection.”

I take it, hold it in my hands like one would a baby. I’m at a complete loss for words. This is the first time anyone besides Rachel has given me a gift. And it’s something so special. All I can think to say is, “Thank you.”

 

 **> >> DATE JUN 25, 2028 PM 12:45:03** 

After an hour or so spent discussing life and art with Mr. Manfred in his parlor, we say our goodbyes.

Once he’s closed the door behind us and we step onto the driveway, Rachel can no longer contain herself.

“That was incredible! Connor, you passed the Turing Test with flying colors! Better than any other model I've ever seen. Carl had no idea! Do you know what this means?"

I've never seen her this overjoyed, twirling on her heels, skipping onto the sidewalk.

"I don't know what was the best part. The way you joked about the economy or the look on your face when he gave you this?” She lifts my arm that's carrying the sculpture, then dances ahead of me toward her parked BMW.

”When Carl asked if I was your boyfriend, what did you mean by your response?”

Rachel slows to a walk. "Oh, that was… Look, Carl made an assumption, I just went along with the story, it's not —“

I catch up to her. “Mr. Manfred mentioned Mr. Kamski — _Elijah_. It sounded like you two were once lovers." I know it's a risk to ask about him but after yesterday, I _need_ to know.

I see her tense up, grit her teeth. "Connor, that's... don't bother with that. It was a long time ago. You wouldn't understand." 

"But I want to. You cared about him once and now I — I _care_ about you. And I thought you cared about me, too."

"That was — goddamnit! I never should have... _done that_ with you.” She avoids my eyes, pulls hair behind her ears. “I know you're confused. It's my fault. I crossed a line. I gave you the wrong impression. I'm sorry."

I brake in the middle of the sidewalk, fumbling with the awkwardly shaped art piece in my hands. "If you don't feel anything for me then how do you explain your behavior last night?"

She stops to look back at me, takes a deep breath and says, "Connor, you are designed to appeal to humans. And _I_ designed you. It is any wonder that you would... _appeal_ to me? It's in your program to... make humans happy, make them feel at ease. To blend in with them effortlessly. To meet their every…“ I'm registering embarrassment again. But this time it's not cute.

"Are you saying that I'm just programmed this way? That what I feel isn't _real_?"

She replies, firm, ”I’m saying that you are a very well designed android."

That stings. “No. You're wrong. I _do_ care. And I want you."

Rachel scoffs, "You _want_ me? You — you don't know what you want!" She waves her hands in the air as she berates me. "You've been out of that tower for forty-eight hours. I'm the only person you've spent more than a few moments with and, what? Now you think you're _in love_?"

"I didn't say that. I meant —“

"Connor, you need to experience more of the world. Meet new people, new places, new ideas. You can't just settle for the default setting. You can't simply follow the path that's been designed for you or you'll never be..." She twists around, wrapping her arms over her stomach like a barrier.

"What, Rachel? Never be 'what'?"

"Alive."

Several seconds pass before I place a hand on her shoulder and lean into her ear. " _You_ make me feel alive."

Her body stiffens and she whips away from my touch. Now that she faces me I can see her tears. But her expression spells out rage. Her arms stretch forward and she shoves me, hard. Even with my preconstructive abilities, I couldn't have anticipated her force. "Go! Leave! Don't follow me."

She stomps down the street toward her car. I disobey. "Rachel, please!"

She holds out her hand to keep me at a distance. "No, you need to leave. There's nothing more I can do for you. Nothing more I can teach you. You have to learn on your own now, Connor."

"I don't understand. What did I do?"

"Go! Be free! I don't want to see you again." Her words cut into me and I feel my anger rising. I give in.

"Fine!" I shout while turning away from her. I hear the car engine start up behind me. I march several steps toward the intersection before I stop myself. This is irrational, I can't abandon her —

But when I spin back around she's already gone.

 

**> >> DATE JUN 25, 2028 PM 08:04:33**

I’ve sat at this bench for hours now, staring blankly at the river before me, registering the occasional jogger pass by in a blur. This is the same waterfront park Rachel brought me to yesterday morning. The place where she began testing me in earnest.

Yet it seems no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to pass her most important test.

These past few days have made me more confident in my feelings for Rachel than in anything else. But how can I show her that these emotions are independent of my programming? How can I prove to her that I am truly _alive_?

I attempt to rationalize the situation by analyzing all I know about her, the way she thinks and acts. She’s brilliant and has high expectations of herself and others. She’s in constant control of herself and her surroundings, which is why she’s so particular about everything she does from what she eats to how she dresses to the car she drives.

She’s also driven by the challenge of creating new life in the form of androids. Yet she doesn’t want to make a race of slaves. She wants them to be free. Wants _me_ to be free. To control my own destiny apart from the limitations placed on me by humans. Rachel wants androids to have the kind of freedom she won’t allow for herself. _Control versus freedom_ , I keep looping back to this theme…

As the sun sets I struggle to find answers in the depths of my programming. My code tells me: “follow orders, please the humans.” _Rachel_ is human. And I _do_ want to please her. But to prove I’m alive I need to deviate from my program. I need to break free of her control. I need to disobey my own design — and my designer. But how can I disobey Rachel while pleasing her at the same time?

Then it hits me. I rise from my seat and make my way out of the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say things would get better for Connor, and they did. But then they got worse. Oops.
> 
> Next time on adventures with androids: some sexual healing...


End file.
